


All We Need Now Is The Dark

by roquentine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon compliant except there is no Watson baby, John is a Bit Not Good, M/M, One Night Stands, Post TST, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, nightclubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 06:11:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13242120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roquentine/pseuds/roquentine
Summary: Post Six Thatchers, Sherlock does a runner and John copes in a less than healthy way.(Canon divergence alert: there is not now nor was there ever a Waston baby.)





	All We Need Now Is The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> I started this in September 2016 as post-Reichenbach songfic for Neon Trees' "Close To You” (source of the title). Then S4 happened, so it morphed a little bit, and sat 90% finished for like a year. Hooray for New Year's Fic Resolutions!
> 
> I don’t tend toward providing excessive/spoilery tags but heed the noted relationships in case that is not your thing.

It takes a month.

Which was shorter than he expected, really.

First, there was one solid week of regular, ordinary, everyday, heartwrenching grief. He sat in his house, his proper house, where he lived with his now-dead wife, and stared at the wall, and wept. Mrs. Hudson appeared and disappeared like a miracle to set food and tea in front of him.

Once, she asked him, a bit hesitantly, if Sherlock could come by, and he slowly diverted his gaze from the wall to look at her. She recoiled at his expression, and never asked again.

He slept when he felt like sleeping, ate when he felt like eating, and otherwise stared, and wept, and grieved.

The second week, he started to think again, to do more than go through the motions of existence. He answered the door to well-meaning neighbors with food and accepted their condolences graciously. He hugged Mrs. Hudson and told her she didn’t need to come back for now and promised to let her know if he needed anything. He slept only at night.

The third week, he started to reason. He tried to understand, and slowly, very very slowly, release his grip on the anger. There was a lot of deep breathing, a lot of shuddering inhales and controlled exhales, the occasional diverting breakdown as he let the truth seep in, bit by bit, careful that it was no more truth than he could absorb at any one time.

The truth about his wife, about her death, and who was responsible for it.

The truth about who he is and what he wants. What he want _ed_ , all along.

The truth about Sherlock.

* * * * *

One month and one day after the aquarium, he goes back into the city, walks down Baker Street, rings the bell at 221B.

He tries to remember if he had ever done that before, actually rung the bell, and he’s almost certain he hasn’t.

Mrs. Hudson pulls the door open, smiles warmly and sympathetically. She quickly invites him inside and asks him if he needs anything.

“I’m here to see Sherlock, actually, is he up there?”

“Sherlock? Why, Sherlock’s gone.”

John stares at her a second, the words not quite registering. “What do you mean, ‘gone’?”

Mrs. Hudson smiles as though chiding herself and reaches out to squeeze John’s arm. “I don’t mean dead, dear, nothing like that. But he left London, maybe two weeks ago.” 

“Another assignment for Mycroft?”

“It’s possible,” Mrs. Hudson shrugs, though she does not sound convinced. “Who knows with those boys. But John…” She pauses, and it’s so very clear to him that she has something to say, but doesn’t know how.

“What is it?”

“It didn’t look… temporary.”

“What do you mean?”

“He didn’t leave with an overnight bag. It was suitcases, John. Quite a few of them.”

She lets him back into the flat. It’s not empty, not by any means; the furniture and functional items are still there, but things are missing, the things that establish Sherlock’s presence to a degree of certainty. John stands in the middle of the sitting room and looks around, and Mrs. Hudson looks at him.

“He gave me enough rent for three months, and said if he wasn’t back by then...”

“I’ll pay it.” John says it unconsciously, hears the words in the air, takes a moment to process them, as if he wasn’t quite aware that they came from his own mouth. “We’re keeping the flat. I’ll pay the rent.” He knows he sounds ridiculous, and is grateful Mrs. Hudson doesn’t press him on exactly what he means by _we_.

* * * * *

Two months. No word from Sherlock, or evidence that he’s been to the flat.

Three months.

Four months after the aquarium, John goes out.

He hasn’t been to a club in a decade. He doesn’t go now with any real expectation. He orders a shot of tequila, knocks it back in one, passing on the salt and lime bits. He thinks his age will be an issue.

It isn’t.

He isn’t there twenty minutes before he is propositioned by some young thing in skinny jeans and Doc Martens. He apologizes politely, says he’s waiting for someone. The boy mutters “Shame,” looks him up and down suggestively, and slides away.

John orders another shot and sips at it this time.

Five minutes later, the shot glass is empty again. He’s surrounded by pounding beats of the music, flashing lights and bodies all moving independently but together, like multiple arms of one organism, and without warning, he feels something, as real as a punch in the solar plexus.

Eyes. On him. One very specific pair of eyes.

He freezes, afraid to turn, afraid to move a muscle for fear it will dissipate.

He closes his own eyes in the hopes that he can somehow divine the source. He knows if he looks frantically about the club, he’ll never find it. He wants to be able to open his eyes and look in the precisely correct direction, so he can know for sure.

He needs to confirm it. To open his eyes and see no one. Prove to himself that this sudden sensation is as psychosomatic as his limp. Wishful thinking made manifest on some cellular level.

Sherlock was not here. Of course he wasn’t. He went away, away from London, away from _him_ , quite understandably and quite probably forever.

John drops his head before opening his eyes, staring down. The feeling is gone, and he can’t look up. He wants to stay in the dark. His eyes well up and he squeezes them shut again.

He goes to 221B and sits in his chair until the sun comes up, then crawls onto Sherlock’s bed and sleeps until nightfall.

* * * * *

He goes back a week later, gets a Jack and Coke from the other end of the bar, and waits.

He is hit on twice more. He declines both times.

Nothing else happens. He goes home.

* * * * *

The third week, a bourbon and water. He downs it quicker than he intends and gets the same again. As he brings the fresh drink to his mouth, his eyes fix on the figure approaching him.

Tall. Dark, curly hair. Cheekbones that could cut glass. Black jeans, grey t-shirt, maybe thirty.

There’s none of the brash, in-your-face confidence of the younger ones who had approached him before. This one is a bit reticent, almost shy.

“Do you…” The stranger smiles, exhales, tries again. “Sorry, do you want to dance?” He angles his body back toward the dance floor.

John holds the man’s gaze as he takes a pull of his drink. He sucks his teeth as he swallows, looks the man up and down, then locks his eyes and says, “Not dance, actually, no.” He sets his glass down without breaking eye contact.

“Ah,” the bloke replies, an awkward pause, a nervous laugh. “Not one to waste time, then. I’m Daniel.” He offers his hand.

“John.” He takes Daniel’s hand with his own and roughly pulls him forward. His left hand shoots to the back of Daniel’s neck, and there’s no hesitation as their mouths slot together. Daniel smells of sweat and tastes of rum and John closes his eyes, pouring all his frustration and fear into the hot mouth of this person he met thirty seconds ago. Daniel grunts and takes a small step to close the gap between their bodies, settling his hands at John’s waist.

“Well, okay,” Daniel says in a low voice when they finally separate. “John. Um... you know, upstairs… we can…”

John cuts him off. “Let’s go.”

Daniel grins and grips his hand and leads him through the throng on the dance floor into a dark corridor, then up a wide set of stairs to a functional, poorly lit hallway. Suddenly it’s a mess of mouths and teeth and tongues as they shove each other against the rough concrete wall, hips thrusting together, gasping and groaning.

John pulls back suddenly, mouth open, breathing hotly. Daniel looks at him with hooded, hungry eyes. John spins him around and shoves up against his back.

“Is this…”, as he grinds his hips up into Daniel’s arse, “...okay?”

Daniel nods, slapping his hands flat against the concrete in front of him. “Yes. Please. _God._ ” He drops his chin to his shoulder and peers back. “Do you have…”

John exhales, disappointed, reality intruding, and then he’s suddenly fine with it. _What the hell am I doing, anyway._ “I don’t, actually.” But then Daniel digs into the front pocket of his jeans, and reaches his hand behind his back.

John stares at the the condom and small packet of lube in Daniel’s palm, and makes a decision.

They each make short work of their own belts and flies, shoving them down just far enough. John tears the condom open with his teeth, rolls it on, grabs Daniel’s hips, yanks him back. He kicks Daniel’s feet apart as far as they will go, slides in one lubed finger, then a second, and works them in and out a couple of times.

Daniel groans. “That’s fine,” he mutters, his elbows braced against the wall. “Just… God, John, just _fuck_ me. I’m good.”

John smears the rest of the lube over the condom and shoves in, falling over Daniel’s back as he goes balls-deep, and of course, _of course_ , that’s when he feels it.

He freezes, as always, and barely hears Daniel ask if everything is okay, barely notices as he pushes back against John, encouraging him.

John shakes his head.

_Fuck you, Sherlock. Not now. No._

He straightens up and starts to shove against Daniel, withdrawing only slightly before thrusting in again. He feels Daniel try to push him back and then move forward, encouraging longer strokes, but John grips his hips and fucks him short and hard and fast.

The feeling of being watched intensifies. He can feel it surrounding him, a pressure on his skin, a suffocation.

He suddenly just wants this to be over.

Daniel is still bracing against the wall with one hand, working his own cock with the other, and irrational politeness makes John decide that he can at least make sure this poor sod gets off. He closes his eyes and steadies his pace until there are unmistakeable signs, then takes advantage of Daniel’s distracted recovery to resume his frenetic rhythm.

He holds his breath and fights his way to a tight, desperate, unsatisfying orgasm.

He collapses into Daniel’s back, pressing his forehead into the grey cotton, hoping Daniel, if he’s even aware of it, thinks it’s sweat and not tears that seep into the fabric. They are both gasping for breath, and when he opens his eyes, his heart stops because of a split second of a familiar silhouette in the periphery of his vision, one there is barely enough light to see, disappearing around a corner at the end of the hallway.

* * * * *

He lets Daniel type a number into his phone, and fakes his way through the brief, weirdly uncomfortable thanks-for-a-good-time kiss. John watches him disappear down the stairs, scrolls to the number, and swipes left, deleting it.

He turns and looks down the hallway in the direction of the disappearing figure, the shadow, the illusion. He moves slowly in its direction, knowing he won’t catch up to it, assuming there is something to catch up to, but his heart thumps in his chest when he sees an exit door at the bottom of a metal staircase. He moves down the stairs, leaning heavily on the bannister, and shoves the door open.

It’s an alley, unremarkable, one of a thousand in the city. It’s dark and it’s cold and he fills his lungs with the bracing midnight air. He closes his eyes and says in a whisper:

“Come back. Please. Just… come back.”

* * * * *

He sleeps in the flat every night for a week. Sherlock doesn’t come back.

He goes home for a week. Sherlock doesn’t come back.

But then.

* * * * *

Two weeks after Daniel, John’s back at the club, back on the bourbon, back to politely declining offers, when the sensation he dreads and craves in equal measure settles at the back of his neck.

He resists it, at first, trying to tell himself that it’s not real, it’s a figment, it is bullshit. He closes his eyes and wills it away, but it doesn’t comply. It is, instead, stronger than ever.

He keeps his eyes closed as he turns in place, a hundred and eighty degrees, and the sensation moves around his body, from the back of his neck to the center of his chest.

He opens his eyes.

* * * * *

_Sherlock fuck I’m going to fucking kill you I’m going to scream I’m going to collapse Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock_

* * * * *

John can’t breathe.

“Outside,” he whispers, and stalks past him. He shoves his way through the crowd and out the front door. He moves around the side of the building to the alley and stops, pulling the chilled air into his lungs and pushing it out again through his teeth, thinking how he did the same thing in the same alley two weeks ago and asked for this very thing.

He waits until his newly confirmed sixth sense kicks in and he knows Sherlock is standing behind him.

“How long have you been back in London?” he asks, not turning around.

“John…”

“How long. Have you. Been back.”

“About a month,” Sherlock says quietly.

“A month.” John turns, finally, and stares at him. “And you’ve been following me.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Sherlock looks at the ground. “I wanted to see how you were.”

“So you _followed_ me?”

“John, I…”

“Are you fucking kidding me? You wanted to see how I was, so you _followed_ me? Are you insane?” He advances toward Sherlock, his voice rising. “You could have just _asked_ , Sherlock. You could have called me, or come by the flat, at which point you open your mouth and say ‘How are you.’ You don’t _spy_ on me. You don’t follow me around and watch me get drunk and watch me _fuck someone else_.” By now John is standing directly in front of him. “You fucking _arsehole_.”

And he _shoves_.

Sherlock moves with the momentum, stumbling back a few steps but regaining his balance in a slow, even adjustment. He doesn’t try to move forward, or raise his hands in self-defense, not even when John steps toward him again, and shoves again, except this time Sherlock is stopped by the wall of the alley, and John advances one more time, and reaches for Sherlock’s jaw, and pulls down.

He’s angry. He’s so angry, at Sherlock, yes, but more at himself, and he’s trying not to think about that and maybe all he wants to do in this moment is erase the last two weeks. Or the last four months. Or the last two years.

But the kiss is hard and messy and nothing is being erased. He can't find Sherlock; all he can taste is the bitter tang of his own adrenaline. He pushes in, and pulls back, and pushes in again, over and over until his jaw starts to hurt. For Sherlock’s part, he meets every one of John’s demands, but makes none of his own. He doesn’t try to push away from the wall, and his arms stay at his sides.

When John is done, he lowers his hands to shove at Sherlock’s chest one more time, and steps back. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Sherlock is catching his breath with his head down, his eyes fixed on the ground.

John’s voice is low and barely audible. “Why did you let me…” He stops and takes one deep, even breath. “Why. Why did you let me _do that. Why_.”

They both know he’s not talking about the kiss.

Sherlock inhales quickly, his words coming out in a rush. He doesn’t look up. “John, I swear, I thought that’s what you wanted. I thought that’s what you were doing here.”

“God, Sherlock, you absolute fucking idiot. What I wanted is you. It’s you _._ ” He paces away, then back, then away again, shaking his head as he looks back up. “It’s _you_.”

“I… I realize that, now.”

John gives a short, sharp, humorless laugh. “You realize it, do you? Well done. Very observant. You’re a goddamned genius, all right.” 

Now Sherlock looks up, and his response is even, plaintive, flat. Matter of fact. “You _married_ someone, John.”

John’s anger dissipates in an instantaneous rush as the plain truth of Sherlock’s statement sucks the air out of his lungs.

“You married someone, after I came back. I was back, John, and you married her, and she died and you blamed me and I tried, I did try, I asked Mrs. Hudson if I could see you, and she said…”

“No,” John whispers.

Sherlock lets that hang in the air for a moment. “So I left. For good, I thought, but it seems I couldn’t… stay away. I just couldn’t. I’m sorry.”

For once, he runs out of words, and they stand there, in silence, for a solid minute. It’s freezing, but neither notices.

“We’re not okay,” John says, finally.

“I know.” Sherlock’s voice is quiet.

“God, none of this is okay.” John lowers his head, pressing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “Not what you did, not what I did.”

“Nope,” Sherlock says, with his customary emphasis on the plosive.

They stand there another long moment. 

“Where have you been staying?” John asks. It’s a ridiculous question but he’s suddenly curious.

“With Mycroft,” Sherlock replies. At John’s wide eyes, he shrugs, maybe grins, just a little.

“Yeah, it’s... not ideal. I keep meaning to call Mrs. Hudson, see if the flat’s still available. I paid her for three months, but...”

“It is... still...” _Yours? Ours?_ He shrugs.

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “You…?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” Sherlock pauses as though he’s not really sure what to do with that information. “Good.”

One more long moment of silence passes.

“We could go there now,” John says, mostly on impulse. It’s probably a terrible idea.

“We could?”

“Just to talk, Sherlock. And maybe drink. Because this,” John gestures broadly at the air between them, “it’s going to take some time. We are nothing if not completely fucked up right now. But I’d like to try to find our way back. If you want to.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, and John’s heart stops, but Sherlock simply says, “Forward.”

John blinks in confusion. “Forward?”

“Find our way forward, John. I don’t want to go back. Back is a bit not good, wouldn’t you agree?”

John smiles at this, a genuine smile, the first one in four months, and if he’s honest with himself, probably longer than that.

“Forward. I’d like that.” He holds Sherlock’s gaze as Sherlock pushes himself off the wall and moves to stand in front of him.

“Okay, then. Let’s go home.”

And at that, at that one short but powerfully meaningful word, something inside John that has been shifted out of place all this time rights itself, and settles.

“Yes.” And he smiles again, and sighs, full of exhaustion, and hope, and relief.

_Home._


End file.
